


as the world shall fresh and deathless last

by sea_changed (foxlives)



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/F, Moral Philosophy, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-06 00:16:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11589111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxlives/pseuds/sea_changed
Summary: "The past doesn't matter," Eleanor says then. Mrs. Barlow looks up at her, her eyes sharp.





	as the world shall fresh and deathless last

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a thought experiment of sorts, namely, how can I make Miranda and Eleanor's 2.04 scene as gay as [this promo pic](http://www.farfarawaysite.com/section/blacksails/gallery2/gallery4/hires/20.jpg) makes it seem?
> 
> Heads up for age difference between two consenting adults both over 21, and some pretty questionable sexual choices. 
> 
> Picks up immediately after the end of the 2.04 scene.

"No," Eleanor says, sharp, and goes after Mrs. Barlow, following her down a short hall. "No," she's saying again, louder, before she even reaches the open doorway, "I will not leave your house, until you give me a more satisfactory answer than an insult to me and my relationship with Flint."

She steps purposefully over the threshold, moving into a space she is not wanted and not allowed, something she is so practiced in it has become a kind of reflex. Mrs. Barlow is standing across from the door, her back to it, looking out the window. Her arms seem to be less crossed over her chest than wrapped around her stomach, as though she is ill.

"I would've thought the insult would have been answer enough," Mrs. Barlow says, her voice low and precise, in contrast to how she had just shouted at Eleanor. She doesn't turn around.

"No, it's not," Eleanor snaps. "I don't care what you think of me, as you sit here in this house, making your tea and milking your cows and whatever the fuck else it is you do here, while I--while Flint--are trying to build something real for this place. But I know it certainly doesn't give you the right to judge me for _encouraging his violence_."

"Doesn't it?" Mrs. Barlow asks, calm and icy.

Eleanor laughs, short and disbelieving. "Have you met him? His violence doesn't need _encouraging_. I am only trying to direct it in a way that can benefit us all."

Mrs. Barlow makes a harsh, scoffing sound. "Yes, I have _met him_ ," she says, her voice still low but lilting now with a mockery that makes Eleanor feel suddenly and discomfitingly young. She turns to face Eleanor, a sharp, restless movement. "And I would venture I know him a far sight better than you do, Miss Guthrie, so I would be careful of what you accuse me of in regards to his nature."

"I don't know who you think he is," Eleanor says, taking a step forward, farther into the bedchamber, "but I can assure you, it is my job to understand the pirates who but for me would run this fucking island, and so I understand Flint, I understand what he is capable of without any of my influence, and I understand that he must be stopped."

"It seems you understand quite a bit," Mrs. Barlow says coolly. Her arms are still wrapped tightly around her.

"I do," Eleanor says frankly. She considers for a moment, her instinct against admitting any kind of weakness poised against her calculations of how to reach this woman. "But I don't understand you, Mrs. Barlow," she says, deciding.

Mrs. Barlow raises her eyebrows, very slightly. "Yesterday you seemed quite certain you understood a great deal about James and me."

It still takes her a moment to connect _James_ with _Flint_ ; she is not sure she'd even known his Christian name before her last visit here. "And you've already informed me quite roundly that I was wrong."

"You don't seem like the kind of woman who would be dissuaded by being told you were wrong."

Eleanor raises her chin a few more degrees. "I'd take that as a compliment," she says. "But what I don't understand is _you_ , Mrs. Barlow. I always believed you to be an intelligent woman. Flint certainly thinks you are--I've seen the books he reserves for you, things no one else in the entire New World wants because no one else in the New World can fucking understand them. And yet you allow him to exile you here--or worse, you choose to exile yourself, in this little world of yours, refusing to help something bigger even when the opportunity is brought to your doorstep."

Mrs. Barlow looks surprised at that, even stricken, but the expression is gone before Eleanor can get a proper read on it. There is a long, taut moment, during which they merely look at each other. 

"You are quite right," Mrs. Barlow says finally, her face emotionless again, her voice cold. "You do not understand me."

"So explain yourself," Eleanor challenges her, "otherwise I will be forced to conclude that you are merely selfish, or cowardly, or too alone here to even understand what it is to do something for someone other than yourself."

Mrs. Barlow makes a sudden movement, neither threatening toward Eleanor nor recoiling away from her, but sharp, her arms coming from where they have been tightly wrapped around her. Just as soon as it happens she has caught her hands in front of her stomach, however, containing herself again, and Eleanor regrets it: she would have like to see what she would have done.

"Simply because I do not do you favors does not mean I am selfish, a coward, or a recluse," Mrs. Barlow says, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles have gone bloodless, her voice strained but no longer as low or as contained as it had been. 

"I'm not asking you to do me a _favor_ ," Eleanor tells her, her own voice rising slightly, "I am asking you to do what it best for this island, for its future and the future of everyone on it--yes, including me, and including you, however much you think yourself apart from the rest of us."

Mrs. Barlow looks away from her, after a moment. She unclasps her hands as if it takes a great effort, and rests one on the dressing table beside her, pressing her fingers against the wood. She looks down at the tabletop, at what is on it, a thick book and several small glass bottles and a plant, flowering elegantly in its pot. Eleanor would be the first to admit she is not much given to poetic nonsense, one thing like another, but there is a strange similarity between the flower's arching branch and Mrs. Barlow's own bowed head: things too contained to be truly beautiful.

"I once cared very much for the future of this place, more than you can understand," Mrs. Barlow says, not moving, her voice low again and measured. "And I have very good reasons for no longer caring one whit, so do not accuse me of things the sources of which you do not understand."

Eleanor looks at her for a few long seconds. "The past doesn't matter," she says then. Mrs. Barlow looks up at her, her eyes sharp. "That's what I've learned. The past is just something that happened once." She has taken another step forward. "If you cared once, you can care again. Tell Flint to call off his plan, and give this place a future. No, I do not understand you, or what you and he hold over each other, but I know he will listen to you, and that, Mrs. Barlow, is all I need to know."

Mrs. Barlow only looks at her, for long, unreadable moments. "You're wrong," she says finally, with a dead certainty and the smallest, most humorless smile on her lips. She is standing very straight, her chin raised, the only gesture of hers so far that Eleanor has recognized in herself. 

"Am I," Eleanor says; a challenge, not a question.

"We are always living with the past," Mrs. Barlow says, and it could sound poetic but it is clearly not, to her: she says it with a sharp bitterness, a twist to her mouth. Her fingers are gripping the edge of the dressing table. "The future is a dream, a spirit. You cannot live based on a dream of what might be."

"But you can live off of what once was?" Eleanor returns. The corners of Mrs. Barlow's mouth tighten, and she does not reply. "Is that what you're doing here, Mrs. Barlow?" Eleanor says shrewdly. "Living off the past?"

Mrs. Barlow's eyes flash, but she does not hesitate in responding, "Is that what you're doing in your tavern, Miss Guthrie? Profiting off the future?"

Eleanor smiles, flashes her teeth. "Yes," she says. 

Mrs. Barlow didn't expect that, Eleanor can tell: there is a slight arch to her eyebrow, something that might be wry amusement. 

"That doesn't mean I don't believe in it, and that I wouldn't do anything for it succeed," Eleanor says. She takes another step forward, and they are close enough to touch, now. "Which brings me back to why I'm here." There is a great depth to Mrs. Barlow's eyes, to the way she is looking at her. "Will you help me?"

"No," Mrs. Barlow replies, with that same certainty.

There is a long moment where Eleanor can do nothing but stare back at her in utter frustration, wanting to do something foolish, like shake her, or shout in her face. To convince her that Eleanor needs her to just do this one thing.

Then Mrs. Barlow's gaze wavers from hers just slightly, dipping down to her mouth and then back up again.

Eleanor would like to think what she does next is part of a plan, but in truth, it is not: it is more like what she used to do when she was a little girl, knocking over jars, pulling cats' tails, just to get a reaction. Just to see what would happen.

She leans in, pausing just before their mouths touch in what she wouldn't like to call a hesitation. She thinks about Charles for a moment, the way he'd looked at her last night with his hands on her, the way he'd led her to the girl, before she pushes him out of her mind. She thinks about Flint, about the ring on Mrs. Barlow's finger that she'd felt, cool and solid, when she'd put her hand on hers. Whether it is Flint's, or someone else's, the implied Mr. Barlow, she doesn't know: she doesn't know anything about her and Flint, as Mrs. Barlow is so fond of reminding her. She supposes that is as good an excuse as any, if she needs one.

Mrs. Barlow sways slightly towards her, her eyes on Eleanor's mouth again, and Eleanor thinks, fuck it. She hasn't fucked a woman since Max, and she wants to, and if she is only a piece in whatever is going on between Flint and Mrs. Barlow right now, then at least she is going into it clear-eyed: if Flint finds the gall to be angry with for her for it, then, quite frankly, fuck him as well.

Decided, Eleanor leans in the rest of the way, pressing their mouths together. Mrs. Barlow breathes in sharply through her nose, as if it is still a shock: for long moments she remains absolutely still against Eleanor, not kissing her back yet, not moving at all.

Eleanor is just about to pull back again, when Mrs. Barlow--and it's odd to think of her as _Mrs_. _Barlow_ like this, and so Eleanor tries to remember what Flint calls her, _Miranda_ \--parts her lips, allows Eleanor in.

Mrs. Barlow--Miranda--begins kissing her back in earnest after that, mouth opening and her tongue doing something complicated in Eleanor's mouth that has her making a breathless sound despite herself. Eleanor reaches for her own shirt, dragging it from her belt and the waistband of her petticoat and pulling back, putting enough space between them to pull it off up over her head. 

Miranda spans her hand over Eleanor's bare collarbone, her thumb catching the thin chain of the locket around her neck. She looks down at her own hand, the place where their skin touches. There is some kind of steady desperation in her gaze, in the way she is touching Eleanor, her hands heavy and her fingers curling too tightly. When she slips her hand down, though, her thumb brushing over the peak of Eleanor's breast is soft, experimental. Eleanor bites her lip, watching Miranda as her thumb begins to move in slow, controlled circles. Eleanor breathes in sharply, arches up against Miranda's hand. 

Eleanor reaches between them, runs her fingers over Miranda's stomach, the front of her gown, and she presses herself closer to her. She runs her fingertips along the edges of Miranda's gown, trying to find the pins she knows are holding it together: " _Fuck_ ," she hisses, when one pricks the pad of her finger. Miranda makes a low, amused sound, and dislodges Eleanor's hand with her own, drawing out the pins herself with quick efficiency, one hand still teasing Eleanor's breast. 

Eleanor reaches for her own belt, and unbuckles it, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter of her keys. She reaches up, pushing Miranda's gown off over her shoulders, and makes a small, frustrated sound when Miranda's hand drops from her breast to slip it off. She twists to unbutton the side of her petticoat as Miranda unties her own, and Eleanor steps out of her shoes, pressing herself against Miranda again, the roughness of the embroidery on Miranda's stomacher, still pinned to the front of her stays, against the peak of her breast worked tender under Miranda's fingers.

Miranda is looking at her with something deep and sharp in her eyes: want, but with something backing it that is wilder, and bigger, Eleanor understands, than her. Eleanor doesn't want to understand whatever that means, though; doesn't want to spend any more time trying to understand Miranda than she already has, fruitless and frustrating. She rolls her hips forward sharply and stares Miranda in the eye, matching her look with one of Eleanor's own, flat and straightforward. 

Miranda seems to understand some of this, or at least reaches for her then, a hand trailing over her hip, to the inside of her leg. Eleanor makes a impatient sound, and presses their mouths together, rolling her hips again. 

Miranda sinks two fingers inside her without warning, and Eleanor gasps, clutches at Miranda's arms. She is wet enough that it barely even stretches, but the surprise of it, the sudden fullness, makes her throb. She fucks herself down, chasing the sensation: their mouths have stilled against each other, pressed together without any sort of purpose. Eleanor almost wants to lean back again, wants to see how Miranda is looking at her now.

Eleanor rocks down on her fingers again, and Miranda twists them with a sharp little movement of her wrist: "Oh, _fuck_ ," Eleanor whispers against her mouth, sharp and breathless. It surprises her a little, through the haze of pleasure, that Miranda knows a trick like that: she'd thought her something of a prude, with her tea and her proper posture and her righteous, haughty tone. This, Miranda's fingers inside her deft and certain, isn't what she'd expected at all.

They are both breathing hard and unsteady, as Miranda crooks her fingers inside her. Eleanor cries out despite herself, so close she feels wild with it: the roll of her hips goes uneven, short hard movements.

She comes with a cry, hard and sudden, like she has been punched. For long moments it is immobilizing, holding her absolutely still as it rolls through her seemingly without end. It takes her a few moments after to find it in her to move, to look up at Miranda. Miranda eases her fingers out of her, and Eleanor rolls her hips with a moan, chasing the aftershocks. 

Miranda looks back at her, eyes glazed. She is much smaller than she'd thought, Eleanor thinks, blinking away her haze of pleasure, without her straight back and high-held chin: Eleanor has perhaps an inch on her, more with they way Miranda is leaning back against the window. One of the straps of her stays has slipped off her shoulder, her shift with it, leaving the curve of her shoulder bare. 

Eleanor reaches up then, presses her palm to the hard bone of Miranda's stays, running her thumb over the swell of her breast above them, the barest arc of her nipple above the rough constricting edge of the canvas. Miranda shudders, closes her eyes.

Eleanor rutches up her shift with her other hand, reaches under it to feel at Miranda's cunt. Miranda gives a small cry as she touches her: she is so wet she is slick with it, and Eleanor presses two fingertips between her folds, finds the spot that makes Miranda's whole body curve when she touches it. She holds on to Eleanor's shoulders, fingers digging in tight, her head bowed and her lips parted. 

Eleanor works her fingers on her, small tight circles, and Miranda makes small, breathless sounds, her head still bowed and her eyes shut tight. Her fingers curl on Eleanor's shoulders, nails digging into her skin, and her hips make small seemingly involuntary movements, pressing herself down against Eleanor's fingertips. 

When she comes, fast and hard, it is soundless, her mouth open around a silent cry: it wracks through her for what seems like minutes, her whole body shaking. Eleanor works her through it, until Miranda's body relaxes, until she begins making small pained noises as Eleanor's fingers rub over her. 

It takes several long moments after Eleanor drops her hand from her before Miranda seems able to straighten up, slow, and take her hands from Eleanor's shoulders. They stare at each other a moment, strange and suspended: it is over as quickly and as suddenly as it had begun, and Eleanor feels at a momentary, discomforting loss for what to do. 

Irritated at herself, she looks away first, a certain sharp turn of her head. She bends down, picking her shirt up from the floor and shrugging it on over her head. Aggressively nonchalant, he walks over to the dressing table, tugging the pin out of her hair and combing her fingers through it. 

The mirror over the table is old and spotted with tarnish, but the frame is intricately carved; it's the kind of thing she could get good money for, if she could find someone who cared about buying it. She can feel Miranda's eyes still on her, studying now, but instead of looking back she begins coiling her hair up again, wrapping it around itself into a knot at the back of her head. 

"If you thought that would work," Miranda says finally, voice perfectly steady again, nothing of the small wrecked noises she had been making only a minute ago, "I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."

"If I thought that would work, I'd be a fucking idiot," Eleanor says, fixing the pin in place. 

"I take it you are not that."

Eleanor glances at her, fishing a lost garter from the floor and putting one leg up on the chair to fix it. "Don't start flattering me now, Mrs. Barlow," she says flatly, tugging her fallen stocking sharply over her knee.

Miranda smiles, thin but amused. Instead of replying, she bends down, picking up her petticoat from the floor with a certain elegant bend of her wrist. Eleanor looks away, retying her garter, and then picks up her own petticoat, buttoning it back on and buckling on her shoes. When she picks up her belt from the floor her keys click against each other, hanging from their wide ring, and she notices Miranda glance at them.

Eleanor cinches the belt tight around her waist, and then looks up, face as impassive as she can make it. "If you change your mind--"

"I won't," Miranda says steadily, looking back at her.

Eleanor makes a sound low in her throat, near a scoff. "Well then," she says flatly, "I suppose that's all there is, then, isn't there?"

Miranda looks at her steadily, but her eyes are still too bright, wisps of her hair dislodged from her intricately braided and twisted-up knot. Eleanor takes a certain pleasure in that, at least, that she has had at least the barest, shallowest effect on her. 

"I suppose it is," Miranda says, her voice steady as her gaze.

They look at each other for a moment more, and then Eleanor nods sharply, and turns away.

She walks out of the room, back down the hall and into the dining chamber. Grabbing her jacket from where she'd left it over one of the chairs, she looks briefly, impassively over the rest of the room; content that she has left nothing else behind, she turns, and leaves the house.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Anne Killigrew.
> 
> I'm on tumblr over at [sea-changed](https://sea-changed.tumblr.com/).


End file.
